Speechless, TenII/Rose, PG-13
"They were never really normal, not even with the mortgage and the carpeting and all, but he would laugh at her current behavior. Laugh and then recommend a long vacation.", 1517 w
from rubberbisquit and shadowed_gold
Rose is about to put the kettle on to start her morning tea when she realizes she's forgotten something. Her steps are muffled against the carpet in the hall as she wanders over to the stairs and calls up for the Doctor. Two minutes go by before she calls up again. Still nothing. Giving up, she goes after him and finds him right where she left him. "Busy day. No time to be sitting about, Doctor."
The kettle's already whistling when she comes back down, the Doctor at her side. He watches silently from the table as she takes out cup and spoon, dumps in enough sugar to frost a cake. It's the kind of day that calls for extra sweet, gray and gloomy. She hasn't even gotten out of her nightshirt yet. It's threatening rain, but the window to the garden is wide open, as it always is. A cold and damp breeze stirs the curtains. "Sort of day good for all those really domestic chores you hate--and if you think you're getting out of helping me scrub down the bathroom, you're out of your mind." From the table, he sulks in her general direction. Rose just sips her tea, making a face back at him.
She spends a few moments in contemplation, thinking of the things she'd like to get done. The wash, for certain. The thought of his suit, still soiled after his last adventure, makes her frown. Those stains are harder to get out than the memories of what he looked like in the clothes. She sighs and brings her cup of tea back to her lips. The breeze picks up again and she can smell the ocean, far away yet right under the window it seems. The air holds the best of tangs. "Perhaps the garden. It’s about time to plant our bulbs isn't it?" Horticulture has never really been his forte, she thinks. But it'll be nice to spend some time outside. She can't remember the last time the two of them have left the house.
He stares at her, his eyes wide. Rose grins, shaking her head. "Okay, fine, not the garden then." Just as well, since she's never been quite able to get the strain of mutant weeds he'd been experimenting with pulled out. Sure, they were pretty and all with little blue flowers, but they choked the life out of anything that dared try to put down roots there. "Painting? The salt's got at the outside again," she suggests, and instantly regrets it. He's useless on a ladder, really, can't take her eyes off him for a minute or he'll tumble off. The idea of broken bones makes her break out in a cold sweat, lately.
Her feet, bare and cold, make no noise as she pads over to the table, leaning over him to rest a hand on the top of his head. "Suppose we could be just lazy and sit around all day, though," she teases. "I mean, if you're so determined to anyway."
And yet, despite her ribbing, she gets no answer. Rose contemplates the bare grin of the Doctor and sighs, deeply, once more. He's shit at doing anything around the house but at least now, in this forever state of his, she'll never have to worry about the sonic making scrap of her kitchen appliances.
"Why didn't you just stay home?" Her voice is hushed in sadness, no longer able to keep up this charade of normality. They were never really normal, not even with the mortgage and the carpeting and all, but he would laugh at her current behavior. Laugh and then recommend a long vacation. "Why did you have to go be the big hero of the day?" From his perch on the table across from her, the empty sockets raise long-gone eyebrows at her and she has to look away. Who would have thought a skull could show such judgment?
She shakes her head as if to pull free physically from the crushing hand of grief, and picks him up to look at him with a weary fondness. As though she didn't know the answer. "Because you were you," she sighs, patting his bald head. She misses his hair--great hair, so soft and rufflable. In the first weeks, she'd had the passing thought to get him a wig, but that would have really been over the top. She hasn't lost it that far yet, no matter what he might say when he hears about this. "Not that you've ever been the model of sanity yourself," she mutters, tucking him into her arm. "Compared to you, I look like the picture of mental health."
The day is young yet but Rose feels impossibly old. Of all the ways she expected to spend her late twenties, alone was not one of them. Not after the Doctor had come back into her world. Not since they'd bought this little cottage and spent their days cradled within each other. She knew, in her very being where she still glows golden sometimes, that this would never last. The fantasy, the illusion, of their happiness was enough though. It pulled the blindfold over reality. Reality has a strange way of pushing itself back into view, though. It stares back at her with thirty-four teeth gleaming in the kitchen lighting. "What am I gonna do now? Eh, Doctor?"
The curtains flutter again in the breeze to catch her attention, a reminder. A comfort, however vague. Neither of them really ever believed in angels and harps and a world beyond, but sometimes she can't help thinking that he really is talking back to her. "What do I do if it never works?" She hops up onto the table, setting him in her lap so that she can meet his empty eyes. "The Dimension Cannon never did, not until Davros started picking at the multiverse. Only one of us at this table was a certified bigheaded scientific genius, and it wasn't me," she scolds lightly, smiling at her own pun. Actually, he's always been light and comfortably-fitting in her small hands. Amazing and horrifying, that so brilliant a mind, so huge a soul, so loving a heart could be contained in such a small receptacle.
"It has to work though. Just has to. Smartest man in the universe, you are. Were. Are." Her feet swing lightly as she contemplates. "It wasn't a terribly clever message, but I think it'll bring you running." Her eyes flick to the open window, her ears strain to hear something, anything. "I hope it will, at any rate."
There's only the faint hush of waves rushing in from the beach, but Rose hears him anyway, so clearly, a deep Northern-accented voice promising, "I'm coming to get you." And she trusts him. She believes in him, no matter what might have passed between them since he was that leather-clad warrior. Every day for months, she's believed in him, and she feels sure that there's enough belief in her soul to last for decades, if necessary. With a firm grip on the Doctor, Rose jumps off the table. "But in the meantime," she tells him, "I'm going to go get the ladder. Painting it is, I think." She glances down at herself, returns the Doctor's eternal sunny grin. "Uh, but maybe some trousers first. It'd be just perfect if the day I go up a ladder knickerless we finally get neighbors."
With that, Rose goes to the window and sets him on the sill. The wind is beginning to kick up, going from a light breeze to howling gusts. Well, if it starts raining she'll just come in. The Doctor, wedged between the screen and the lip of the windowsill, will be perfectly safe where he is. "Now you keep a lookout," she orders playfully, imagining his delicious smile at a silly new game. "And be sure to let me know if anyone approaches off the port bow." She returns his nonexistent salute with a sharp one of her own, then turns on her heel and marches toward the stairs. Another day of quality time with her Doctor.
She only gets halfway up when she recalls that despite the whining wind, the curtains were still hardly moving. She nearly tumbles headfirst back down the stairs in her haste to reach the window, and wouldn't that be ironic, to break her neck right at this very moment?
The thought occurs to her as she races to the window that she lives with (and talks to) the skull of her lover, and maybe she's finally cracked after all. She's waited so long, it feels like forever, and maybe if she is mad she should just go with it. Rose snatches the Doctor from the windowsill, kisses his forehead soundly, and tucks him safely into her arms. She's racing out the door as the first raindrops fall, the advance messengers of the storm's arrival. "Best lookout ever!" she cries joyfully down to the skull in her arms, and their grins match as she races towards the TARDIS.
from rubberbisquit and shadowed_gold
Rose is about to put the kettle on to start her morning tea when she realizes she's forgotten something. Her steps are muffled against the carpet in the hall as she wanders over to the stairs and calls up for the Doctor. Two minutes go by before she calls up again. Still nothing. Giving up, she goes after him and finds him right where she left him. "Busy day. No time to be sitting about, Doctor."
The kettle's already whistling when she comes back down, the Doctor at her side. He watches silently from the table as she takes out cup and spoon, dumps in enough sugar to frost a cake. It's the kind of day that calls for extra sweet, gray and gloomy. She hasn't even gotten out of her nightshirt yet. It's threatening rain, but the window to the garden is wide open, as it always is. A cold and damp breeze stirs the curtains. "Sort of day good for all those really domestic chores you hate--and if you think you're getting out of helping me scrub down the bathroom, you're out of your mind." From the table, he sulks in her general direction. Rose just sips her tea, making a face back at him.
She spends a few moments in contemplation, thinking of the things she'd like to get done. The wash, for certain. The thought of his suit, still soiled after his last adventure, makes her frown. Those stains are harder to get out than the memories of what he looked like in the clothes. She sighs and brings her cup of tea back to her lips. The breeze picks up again and she can smell the ocean, far away yet right under the window it seems. The air holds the best of tangs. "Perhaps the garden. It’s about time to plant our bulbs isn't it?" Horticulture has never really been his forte, she thinks. But it'll be nice to spend some time outside. She can't remember the last time the two of them have left the house.
He stares at her, his eyes wide. Rose grins, shaking her head. "Okay, fine, not the garden then." Just as well, since she's never been quite able to get the strain of mutant weeds he'd been experimenting with pulled out. Sure, they were pretty and all with little blue flowers, but they choked the life out of anything that dared try to put down roots there. "Painting? The salt's got at the outside again," she suggests, and instantly regrets it. He's useless on a ladder, really, can't take her eyes off him for a minute or he'll tumble off. The idea of broken bones makes her break out in a cold sweat, lately.
Her feet, bare and cold, make no noise as she pads over to the table, leaning over him to rest a hand on the top of his head. "Suppose we could be just lazy and sit around all day, though," she teases. "I mean, if you're so determined to anyway."
And yet, despite her ribbing, she gets no answer. Rose contemplates the bare grin of the Doctor and sighs, deeply, once more. He's shit at doing anything around the house but at least now, in this forever state of his, she'll never have to worry about the sonic making scrap of her kitchen appliances.
"Why didn't you just stay home?" Her voice is hushed in sadness, no longer able to keep up this charade of normality. They were never really normal, not even with the mortgage and the carpeting and all, but he would laugh at her current behavior. Laugh and then recommend a long vacation. "Why did you have to go be the big hero of the day?" From his perch on the table across from her, the empty sockets raise long-gone eyebrows at her and she has to look away. Who would have thought a skull could show such judgment?
She shakes her head as if to pull free physically from the crushing hand of grief, and picks him up to look at him with a weary fondness. As though she didn't know the answer. "Because you were you," she sighs, patting his bald head. She misses his hair--great hair, so soft and rufflable. In the first weeks, she'd had the passing thought to get him a wig, but that would have really been over the top. She hasn't lost it that far yet, no matter what he might say when he hears about this. "Not that you've ever been the model of sanity yourself," she mutters, tucking him into her arm. "Compared to you, I look like the picture of mental health."
The day is young yet but Rose feels impossibly old. Of all the ways she expected to spend her late twenties, alone was not one of them. Not after the Doctor had come back into her world. Not since they'd bought this little cottage and spent their days cradled within each other. She knew, in her very being where she still glows golden sometimes, that this would never last. The fantasy, the illusion, of their happiness was enough though. It pulled the blindfold over reality. Reality has a strange way of pushing itself back into view, though. It stares back at her with thirty-four teeth gleaming in the kitchen lighting. "What am I gonna do now? Eh, Doctor?"
The curtains flutter again in the breeze to catch her attention, a reminder. A comfort, however vague. Neither of them really ever believed in angels and harps and a world beyond, but sometimes she can't help thinking that he really is talking back to her. "What do I do if it never works?" She hops up onto the table, setting him in her lap so that she can meet his empty eyes. "The Dimension Cannon never did, not until Davros started picking at the multiverse. Only one of us at this table was a certified bigheaded scientific genius, and it wasn't me," she scolds lightly, smiling at her own pun. Actually, he's always been light and comfortably-fitting in her small hands. Amazing and horrifying, that so brilliant a mind, so huge a soul, so loving a heart could be contained in such a small receptacle.
"It has to work though. Just has to. Smartest man in the universe, you are. Were. Are." Her feet swing lightly as she contemplates. "It wasn't a terribly clever message, but I think it'll bring you running." Her eyes flick to the open window, her ears strain to hear something, anything. "I hope it will, at any rate."
There's only the faint hush of waves rushing in from the beach, but Rose hears him anyway, so clearly, a deep Northern-accented voice promising, "I'm coming to get you." And she trusts him. She believes in him, no matter what might have passed between them since he was that leather-clad warrior. Every day for months, she's believed in him, and she feels sure that there's enough belief in her soul to last for decades, if necessary. With a firm grip on the Doctor, Rose jumps off the table. "But in the meantime," she tells him, "I'm going to go get the ladder. Painting it is, I think." She glances down at herself, returns the Doctor's eternal sunny grin. "Uh, but maybe some trousers first. It'd be just perfect if the day I go up a ladder knickerless we finally get neighbors."
With that, Rose goes to the window and sets him on the sill. The wind is beginning to kick up, going from a light breeze to howling gusts. Well, if it starts raining she'll just come in. The Doctor, wedged between the screen and the lip of the windowsill, will be perfectly safe where he is. "Now you keep a lookout," she orders playfully, imagining his delicious smile at a silly new game. "And be sure to let me know if anyone approaches off the port bow." She returns his nonexistent salute with a sharp one of her own, then turns on her heel and marches toward the stairs. Another day of quality time with her Doctor.
She only gets halfway up when she recalls that despite the whining wind, the curtains were still hardly moving. She nearly tumbles headfirst back down the stairs in her haste to reach the window, and wouldn't that be ironic, to break her neck right at this very moment?
The thought occurs to her as she races to the window that she lives with (and talks to) the skull of her lover, and maybe she's finally cracked after all. She's waited so long, it feels like forever, and maybe if she is mad she should just go with it. Rose snatches the Doctor from the windowsill, kisses his forehead soundly, and tucks him safely into her arms. She's racing out the door as the first raindrops fall, the advance messengers of the storm's arrival. "Best lookout ever!" she cries joyfully down to the skull in her arms, and their grins match as she races towards the TARDIS.